


Game Face

by cincoflex, vega_voices



Category: Murphy Brown (TV)
Genre: Competition, F/M, Pool, Vegas_Voices, sexbanter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 10:49:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16931877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cincoflex/pseuds/cincoflex, https://archiveofourown.org/users/vega_voices/pseuds/vega_voices
Summary: Like mother like daughter; Murphy calls the shots.





	Game Face

**Author's Note:**

> I owe much love to Vega_voices for her WONDERFUL series 'Come Rain, Come Shine' for this! Her insights into Murphy and Peter make for fantastic reading and inspired me to do this story, with her guidance!

It was a Brunswick.

Eight feet by four with emerald green baize, standing thirty-one inches off the storage unit floor, the carved oak gleaming under the harsh fluorescent light. The tarp had kept years of dust off of it; the entire piece looked as if it belonged in a showroom and may well have come from one, Murphy thought.

_Thanks mom. Out of all the things you could have left me . . ._

“Pool table,” Eldin observed, shooting Murphy a cautious glance.

“I can see that,” Murphy noted dryly. “Thanks for confirming it.”

“Oh it’s _more_ than a pool table,” Eldin murmured. “Looks like a top of the line Monarch from about nineteen twenty-nine. Right before the Depression when money was plenty and people spent it hard. Beeswax polish, Egyptian worsted baize, hand-dyed, probably has Bakelite billiard balls and this is genuine mother of pearl inlay at the corners. Took fifteen different craftsmen the better part of three years to put something like this together, all by hand,” he rolled out, admiration evident in his voice. “Sort of the Taj Mahal of pool tables. A real beauty. A queen.”

“Should I leave you two alone for a moment here?” Murphy responded but her heart wasn’t in it. She stroked one of the long sides and sighed before she spoke again. “God, Eldin. What am I going to do with a pool table? Where the hell am I going to _put_ it?”

Eldin shrugged. “I dunno. But a table like this . . . you mother didn’t buy it, Murphy. A table like this—you can be damned sure she _won_ it.”

“Won . . . it?” Murphy considered this, weighed it against what she knew and remembered.

Annnnd, yeah.

It fit.

***

By the time Avery was born, the room was done. What had once been her dark, dingy basement had, under Eldin’s efforts, become a game room. The walls were now a robin’s egg blue, the concrete floor sanded down and covered with shag rugs. Two overstuffed microfiber couches gave space to sit, the walls were lined with board games and video cartridges. There were two dart boards, an elegant chess set Eldin had found at a flea market, a small air hockey table and a foosball setup. There was a basket of regulation footballs and basketballs and another one full of soft, nerf type ones for Avery to play with. A TV was ready for game watching, should the party move down there. At the center of it all rested the pool table. She hadn’t even asked how Eldin managed to get it into the space, she just knew that if she ever moved, the house might have to go with her. 

But for all the work, the room sat unused. Murphy was too busy to enjoy the space, Avery was far too small, and it wasn’t like she was having people over to watch the basketball games right now. The door sat, locked, just enough out of sight to keep her from thinking about it but just close enough for her to be glad for it. Eventually, Avery would need his man-cave and it was a perfect setup for that. God help her if he hated sports. 

Avery’s baby stroller went into the storage space in the basement. As did his bouncer and his rocker. His cradle from Corky. But she never went down. It was easier to watch the games in the living room, the sound muted, while she dug through research and Avery played with his toys. 

She didn’t forget about it; she just didn’t think of it very often, which was how Murphy managed to be only slightly perplexed when Peter asked about the door in the kitchen. 

“Basement?” He tested the knob which didn’t turn because Murphy knew eventually Avery would be able to reach it, and the nightmare of having a toddler tumble eleven steps to a concrete landing would haunt her forever.

“Yeah,” Murphy threw over her shoulder, digging deeper in the drawer; the damned melon baller had to be here. She’d won it at some kitchen tool party Corky had thrown and although Murphy was never going to ball a melon in her life, it was the perfect size to drop small, elegant scoops of vanilla into a root beer float. Nothing too big to clog up the glass; nothing too small to jam up the straw . . . 

“What’s down there?”

“All the men I’ve lured and dismembered over the years,” she muttered. “I’m running out of space.”

“Funny,” Peter shot her a smirk. “And I thought I was special.”

“You are--you’ll be number sixty-nine,” she told him. “Have you seen the melon baller?”

He shot her a look so filthy Murphy wanted to reach for a washcloth. “Sixty-nine? And if there’s any balling, melons will not be involved. Seriously, what’s down there?”

Murphy took a moment to think. “Stuff,” she waved a hand, wondering if she was looking in the wrong drawer. It never failed; the minute you looked for something it moved, and when you didn’t want something it was right in your face.There was probably an analogy for life there but she was more interested in vanilla ice cream at the moment.

“Stuff. I can see how you’ve won awards for your dynamic and powerful vocabulary,” Peter snorted.

“Basement stuff,” Murphy amended. “Come on---basements are pretty much the same the world over, right? Snow shovels, Christmas ornaments, pool tables--”

The minute it popped out of her mouth she regretted it. Mostly because Peter froze, and then arched an eyebrow at her. His gaze had that twinkle in it, the dangerous one that meant at some point clothes were going to be very optional.

“A pool table. You’re telling me that YOU have a pool table. This I gotta see.”

Murphy slapped her hands on the counter and glared at him. “Are you calling me a liar, Hunt? Or is this just a way to check out my subterranean storage?”

“Yes I’m all about the utilities of Georgetown mansions,” he quipped. “Seriously Murphy--you’re just not the type to own a pool table.”

“Hey!” she protested, reaching for the key, which was on the hook near the kitchen windowsill. “What type is that?”

“Well generally the sort that are pot-bellied, smoking cigars and have copies of the dog-racing schedules in their back pockets,” Peter shrugged. “Your basic Jack Klugman sharks as it were.”

“Yeah? For all you know I have the entire Twilight Zone episode down there,” she countered. Peter’s smirk was too much and she twirled the key’s ring on her finger.

He sauntered over, pinning her back against the counter, lazy and confident as he moved to nuzzle her cheek. “Baccarat would be more your game,” Peter purred. “Exclusive clubs, champagne, diamonds. Not chalk squares, bevel lights and old cigarette smoke. Pool is for hustlers and suckers, Murphy, not . . .”

“Women?” she threw back at him, half amused at his poetic turn, half annoyed at his easy sexism. Peter generally wasn’t so obtuse, but then again he had his blind spots. “Come on, Peety,” she taunted. “You think my years on the road didn’t have me playing pool better than all the guys out there?” 

He paled for a minute. “I …” his hands were still on her waist and she leaned into the touch. 

“You forget that I wasn’t born in the FYI studio sometimes?”

“Well …” he grinned. “Yes.” She’d have punched him, but he leaned in and kissed her and since he’d started doing that, she was far less likely to give into the urge to put her fist into his stomach. 

God she loved the feel of his lips against hers. 

“I thought you wanted to see the pool table,” she teased as he pulled back. 

“Oh. Yeah.” His eyes twinkled. 

Murphy made a show of unlocking the door, putting a little more drama into it than was strictly necessary, mostly because it made Peter watch her, particularly with that slightly hungry look he sometimes got. She tossed her hair and pulled the door open, waving to the darkness with game show hostess perfection. “The basement.”

“Suddenly the idea you’ve got bodies down there doesn’t seem so unlikely,” Peter muttered, peering into the gloom. “Lightswitch?”

“Sure NOW you want to play it safe,” Murphy teased, pointing to a switch just inside the doorway. “Mr. ‘I walk into the line of fire on a daily basis’ Hunt is wussy enough to need a light to go into the basement.”

“I’ve seen Night of the Living Dead,” Peter shot back. “I may have a basement trust issue or two.” Nevertheless he dropped a hand on the banister and began descending, Murphy following behind.

When they’d both gone about six steps, Peter gave a low groan of approval at the treasure trove below them. “You have a . . . man cave,” he announced.

“Ew,” Murphy responded, making a grimace. “Whatever happened to game room, or rec room?”

But Peter’s attention was drawn to the tarp at the far end, and even though he gave a loving glance to the other enticements vying for his attention, he made his way to the blue plastic cover, hands reaching for it. Murphy held her breath as he tugged the cover away, unsure what was hitting her more - the table her mother was somewhere insulted she wasn’t using, or seeing this man she adored connecting to it. The Dater in her soul sent a pang through her, wishing that her mother could have met Peter. 

Unaware of her thoughts, Peter sucked in a breath, leaning back on one hip and staring at the work of art in front of him. “Holy Jesus God, Murphy . . .” he breathed finally. “Where did you GET this?”

She moved closer, admiring the curve of his ass for a few seconds before reluctantly replying. “Let’s just say it’s a legacy.”

He looked over his shoulder at her, eyes assessing her anew, a hint of fresh respect in them. That felt damned nice and Murphy lifted her chin a little, smiling. 

“Your dad?” he asked.

Murphy felt a flare of annoyance; the question was logical but sexist just the same. Of course Peter would make that assumption. Any man would, damn it.  
She didn’t answer right away; instead, she moved around the end of the table to the wall where the rack of cues hung, and flicked another lightswitch. Over the table the rectangle lamp of stained glass came on, casting a glow over the green baize below it.

“Wrong parent,” Murphy glanced across the table at Peter. In the shadows, he looked deliciously young and hungry, running a hand through his hair, his gaze still on the table.

Suddenly he glanced up, eyes bright, and Murphy felt the heat in his gaze. “I . . . stand corrected,” he acknowledged with a wry grin.

“I could still beat you though,” he added.

Every competitive impulse in Murphy’s body flared at that. It was instinct, honed by challenge and in this case sharpened ever so slightly by the edge of lust. Peter was good at a lot of things, Murphy acknowledged to herself. Some he knew, some _she_ knew but didn’t want to tell him lest he get even cockier than he was, but unspoken between them was the tease of dare; the competitive drive that made every encounter that much sweeter at times.

She arched an eyebrow at him, and leaned forward, both hands on the bumper nearest her. Just watching him. Putting him under her oh-so-direct gaze. Dictators had wilted under that stare; crooked politicians had sweated. The heat of it was legendary.

Peter met it, and held it. He mirrored her position on the other side, big hands resting on the edge, and the only sign of nervousness was an ever so slight drumming of his fingertips.

“I think what you _meant_ to say was, ‘that’s a nice pool table, now let’s go back upstairs and have ice cream,’” Murphy told him, her voice slow but the gleam in her eyes bright. 

He grinned. It was the one that generally made her want to shift as the heat hit under her stomach. The predatory one. “Nnnnnnnope,” Peter replied, still holding her gaze.

For a moment Murphy wanted to laugh because honestly, he reminded her so damned much of Avery, who’d been going through an amusing stubborn phase at the moment. They both had that defiant sort of smirk; that ‘what are you gonna do about it?’ stance that seemed to be the hallmark of males the world over.

She wasn’t sure she could get away with scooping Peter up and herding him into a bathtub, although it might be fun to try, later. No, at the moment the gauntlet had been dropped in front of her, and it was time to call up everything she remembered about gently, ruthlessly putting down an upstart.

***

It wasn’t just that she was just about the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on - with or without clothes. Or that her eyes twinkled. Or that she could run intellectual circles around almost everyone. Or that she was the best journalist he’d ever worked with. Or that she couldn’t cook to save her life and was somehow raising a healthy son on a diet of finger foods and take out. No. The clincher in Peter’s mind was the fact that she never backed down from a challenge. 

Half of what made challenging her so damned much fun was that quick predatory gleam she’d get in her eyes. A tigress on the hunt, trying to look calm but with a little flick of hair, or a twitch of those lips . . . Peter had no problem with getting a rise out of her.

After all, it invariably meant a rise out of him as well, usually in a far more sensually earthy way. Instinct. Reaction. Addiction, if he was being honest with himself. Murphy was his drug of choice and Peter wasn’t about to ever say no to this particular one.

Damned shame he’d have to put her down though. He knew perfectly well that no matter how gorgeous the table or what history Murphy had with it, his own skills were more than enough to insure a victory. He’d put in years of games while going through school, or hunting down leads, teasing out information over the felt of a hundred pool halls and billiard rooms from Boston to Bosnia. He’d paid his dues and then some, all as a means to an end.

Murphy was shaking her head, trying to look sorrowful, which didn’t hide the set of her pretty lips. “Digging your own grave, and right here in my basement. Saves me the trouble of doing it for you, number sixty-nine.”

“Nice Freudian choice of number,” he taunted back, waggling his eyebrows. “Something specific on your mind?”

The faintest pink highlighted her cheekbones and he felt himself throb when she bit her lower lip, trying not to laugh. “You’re keeping me from my float,” she complained. “I’m hungry.”

“Oh I’m sure I could take care of that,” he straightened up, letting the bevel light catch the gleam of his teeth. “Sounds _exactly_ like my kind of bet.”

Peter watched her struggle, knowing she was trying not to roll her eyes or shift her hips; mind and body in the eternal struggle. The problem was that he knew damned well that Murphy Brown had a healthy libido, one as ruthless as his own. The speed the two of them could go from intellectual debate to mutual lust frenzy was at least Mach one most of the time.

She knew it too. Sighing, Murphy swung her shoulders expansively and looked upwards. “I tried to warn him,” she told the ceiling.

Against his will Peter glanced up and she snickered. Moving swiftly Murphy pulled two cues from the rack on the wall, along with the triangle frame and laid them with great ceremony on the green felt.

“Choose your instrument of self-destruction,” she taunted sweetly.

The atmosphere changed; charged. Peter felt a surge of desire flare through him and stepped forward, glancing briefly at the two cues before choosing one. The heft was right--well balanced, with woven leather around the butt end. He ran a hand up the length, knowing Murphy was watching him, which made the gesture a little . . . erotic. 

“A little short for me, but I’ll manage,” he told her.

Murphy made a great show of not laughing but her eyes twinkled and she picked up the other cue, slim hand circling the long shaft in a way that had him gritting his teeth to suppress a certain memory of that exact grip applied elsewhere . . .

“Since you’re the victim, um, sorry, guest here, you can break,” Murphy offered, sauntering around the corner of the table, sliding her hand into the nearest pocket to fish out whatever was there. She produced two solids, rolling them his way, and moved to the next pocket.

Peter helped, and within a minute all the balls were on the green and racked in the triangle frame. He rolled them a bit to get them aligned before pulling the frame off and admiring the set.

“Best two out of three?” he suggested.

\--oo00oo--

It didn’t take more than twenty minutes for Peter to realize how much trouble he was in. Murphy not only knew how to play pool, she knew how to play _him_ as well. All those games he’d won before in all those dives had been against people he’d known or needed information from; sources, friends, coworkers. And they’d been men. Burly or short, in three piece suits or sanitation crew overalls, bearded or shaved, but to a man, men.

Peter hadn’t realized how deftly someone like Murphy could turn her gender into a subtle, deliberate asset around a pool table. Even in low-slung sweatpants and a faded NOW tee-shirt with peeling iron-on letters she had him wrapped around a pinkie. How was a guy supposed to concentrate when the sweet curve of one hip flashed him? How could anyone focus on lining up a shot when the gap between shirt and pants revealed the wink of her belly button like that?

He forced himself not to react--at least overtly. His body had other ideas though, and a lot of them were considering how broad, flat and conveniently available this pool table was.

It didn’t help that it was clear Murphy knew _exactly_ what she was doing and had no intention of taking pity on him. Not that she ever would; that was one of the things that made Peter love her all the more. She made him work for what they had because it was worth it, and God knew she was no slouch about putting in her time too.

Still, the first game was going to her and there wasn’t a damned thing Peter could do about it.

“Eightball in the corner pocket,” she called in her throatiest manner before leaning one slim hip against the table and bending to line the cue. On the other side, Peter had a wonderful view of her carved hip bone jutting up in the gleam of the bevel, and a matching view down the neck of her tee-shirt. He bit back a groan.

The cue made one clean jab, clicking the ebony ball and sending it into the pocket with a quiet ‘clunk’ that echoed in the basement.

Peter gave a nod, acknowledging the victory when an idea occurred to him: tit for tat. He was too smart to point out what Murphy was doing, but he wondered if it was possible to turn the tables. Certainly worth the effort, and it could be . . . fun, he thought.

With that in mind, he moved around the table as Murphy started to collect the billiards, wiping a hand across his chest, and in the process unbuttoning the top two buttons of his shirt. It wouldn’t be obvious as he stood there, but once he stretched out to take a shot . . .

“You won . . . this time,” he rumbled. “Go ahead and break.”

Murphy crowed, flashing him a grin. “Damn straight, skippy!” She bent over again, deliberately waggling her ass in a way that made Peter want to grab and squeeze it. 

“Okay, I can take verbal taunts--shit-talking’s traditional-- but _that_ is pushing it,” he warned, pointing a finger at her.

“That?” Murphy shot back, her expression so dramatically innocent he nearly laughed out loud.”What is this _that_ of which you speak?”

“Shaking your booty like a Raiders cheerleader,” he accused. “ _That_ that.”

“I wasn’t shaking. I was positioning myself. And I’m ashamed of you--if you’re going to compare me at least do it with the women of the home team here!”

“They don’t shake them the way you do,” Peter pointed out. “Trust me; I _know_ these things.”

Murphy made a face and took the break, sending the balls in a beautiful spread across the far end of the table. She rose up like a lioness and gave him a lofty look. “I’m not sure whether to be insulted or not.”

“Let me know when you get that worked out,” Peter teased, grinning. His smile faded, slightly, when she made her next shot, but he was committed to this course of action. Especially if it ended with her legs wrapped around his hips while digging her nails into his back. 

It dawned on him that Murphy was . . . happy. She was having a good time, showing off her skills as well as her body and the realization that he was enjoying it so damned much nearly floored him. Such a simple thing--giving this glorious woman her due in this intimate setting were it was the two of them without anyone else to entertain or impress.

Loving Murphy for well, being Murphy. Easy to do--hell, Peter knew he’d been doing it from nearly the moment he’d met her. But being able to tease and show his adoration made it all the sweeter, and throwing in some challenge as well had him quietly thanking fate or fortune or both.

“So many balls, so little time,” Murphy broke into his reverie, smirking. However her cue hit a little too high and the shot went wide. She scowled cutely, glaring at the table.

“Quality, not quantity,” Peter shot back, tongue in cheek. “Good things come in pairs.”

She made a show of glancing at his crotch, and Peter snorted, sauntering around the corner of the table to line up his shot. He leaned over the table, feeling the pull of his shirt widen the gap across his chest and exposing the top part of it under the bevel light. 

“Two in the side pocket.”

Murphy’s little sigh let him know the maneuver worked. He liked her chest; she liked his--she’d certainly raked her nails through it enough times. With quiet authority, he made the shot, sinking the striped ball and taking his time pulling back from the table. 

In the shadows he saw her eyes glitter. “Like what you see?” he managed, trying not to sound coy.

“Do you have any idea how corny that line sounds?” Murphy scoffed sweetly.

“Depends--is it working?”

She tried to look amused, but Peter noted she licked her lips. Bingo.

“Come on, next shot,” Murphy pointed with her chin even as her hands began to stroke her cue in a way he didn’t miss. He did miss his shot though and had to face up against that smirk of Murphy’s. This time, however, she was in his space, squared off against him. To move past her and give her room, his hand pressed on her hip and lingered, his fingers tightening, just slightly. He didn’t miss the flush in her cheeks or the perking of her nipples. 

“Shall we raise the stakes?” His taunt simmered between them and he leaned in for the kiss both of them were craving. 

“What did you have in mind?” Murphy asked after pushing him back, her hand lingering on his chest. Between them, the cues stood at attention. 

“Miss a shot, lose an item of clothing,” he suggested. “Shoes and socks being determined as paired of course.” Peter wasn’t about to waste time on semantics or rules whenever possible. By his guess he was at least one piece of clothing shorter than Murphy, but losing ANY clothing was a bonus at this point for either of them.

Besides, he had a theory about which bra she had on--he hoped it was the French lace one. That particular piece framed her chest like the piece of art it was, and had the bonus of being a front hook one too. It was fun to undo with his teeth.

Murphy’s glance slid down his body and back up again. “This is because I’m winning,” she pointed out. “A desperate attempt at a diversion to save face, isn’t it?”

“Orrrr,” he countered, “it could be my way of offering up the ultimate humiliation. A chance for you to _literally_ beat the pants off of me.”

“Tempting,” Murphy admitted. “Very tempting. I don’t usually go for the cat and mouse routine with my victims, but your boldness intrigues me. Also, your ass.”

Peter manfully hid his smirk, settling instead for a shift of hips as he cocked his head. He’d learned the hard way about pushing this particular woman and appreciating the soft appeal over the loud demand. The moment stretched out, and finally Murphy nodded.

“I hope you’re ready to bare it all, Hunt.”

Peter hoped so too--preferably after _she_ did, of course.

\--oo00oo--

Now that he’d made the bet, the tension torqued up, and Peter found himself concentrating like never before. It was one thing to taunt and another to give in to that competitive edge. It wasn’t one of his kinder traits. He knew this. Knew it and yet . . . Murphy seemed to love him despite understanding he could be a ruthless bastard, even here in her basement.

Peter lost his shoes and then his socks--no big deal he assured himself. 

Murphy lost her socks and her NOW shirt, revealing that yes, the French lace was upholding her charms. She didn’t seem fazed by the loss, which should have warned him.

He lined up shots, called them, and for the most part made them until one particularly difficult layout where he looked down the long barrel of the cue to see Murphy beyond the shot, eyeing him in that hot-eyed way that sent a jolt straight to his libido.

He missed the shot, the stick skidding off the side of the cue ball and sliding along the green baize, the tip hitting the bumper between Murphy’s hands and she laughed.

“Oh Petey, sooooo close. Having a little trouble concentrating?”

“Something was in my eyes,” he countered instantly.

She snickered. “Fortunes of war . . . and Potomac Electrical I suppose. Ah well, time to forfeit. What to choose, what to choose . . . Shirt would be easy of course, but I’ve had a suspicion I want to confirm. Jeans please.”

Peter felt himself blush. “Ah . . . sure you won’t reconsider?” He knew what her suspicion was, and losing his pants would _definitely_ confirm it.

“Welshing already?” she taunted, shooting him a mock-disappointed look. “Weren’t you the one who suggested this wager in the first place?”

“I’m not welshing,” he pointed out with deliberation. “I’m just questioning your choice here. Seems to be bucking protocol.”

“Protocol?” Murphy hooted, shifting around the end of the pool table and swinging her cue so that it lightly thwapped his ass. “Didn’t some old writer have a line about protesting too much?”

“Shakespeare,” Peter automatically supplied, feeling annoyed that the love tap sent a sensual surge through his traitorous loins. He’d had his fair share of icy dominatrix fantasies, most of them centered on the same blonde. 

This same blonde in fact.

“Points to your English Lit professor but I need you to make with dropping the pants,” Murphy told him.

“Whatever happened to loser’s choice?” he stalled.

“History and victory have the same editor,” Murphy cheerfully reminded him. She came around and hopped up, perching herself on the edge of the table. “He who hesitates is lost . . . or more likely, going commando.”

“You already _knew_ ,” Peter deduced, shifting closer, pushing between her knees to nuzzle her throat.

“Balls were on my mind well before you even discovered the basement door,” she admitted, slipping her arms around him to pull him closer for a kiss. 

God, luscious and hot; Peter flicked his tongue against hers, feeling giddy.

Did she who kissed first forfeit?

Then again. He’d actually kissed first, so either way, he was just screwed. 

He didn’t mind. Not at this point. Murphy was better at pool; Peter could live with that. He worked his kisses down the side of her long throat, big hands cupping her bare spine. Under his lips and touch she moaned happily.

“Forfeit?” she managed.

“Foreplay,” he replied, getting another happy moan from her. 

Things got much more interesting from that point on. Jeans were lost, as were sweatpants, and Peter managed a personal best in teeth to bra hooks time, not that he was keeping records per se. 

And the Brunswick was the perfect height for climbing onto. Sturdy enough to support two lust-crazed competitors without even creaking. Since Murphy was the victor, Peter allowed himself to be splayed across the green like the trophy he was, apparently. Murphy arched over him on all fours, not exactly gloating but her expression left few other ways to describe it.

“This is the ultimate in lording over you,” she told him, her hair slipping down her shoulders. “Physically, verbally . . .”

“Nakedly,” he agreed, reaching up to brush a strand. “I think you should put me out of my misery by impalement---I’ve got the perfect device in fact.”

She groaned at his play on words, but the moment of weakness was not enough to deter her hand slipping down his torso and her fingers landing on his cock, stroking him exactly like she had the pool cue only moments before. 

He gasped; between the warmth of her fingers and the shockingly lewd image it seared into his head Peter bit his lower lip in an effort to keep from blowing his wad right there. All he could manage was, “Dirty pool, Brown!”

“You _started_ it, Hotshot,” she reminded him, bending to kiss his mouth even as her fingers slid around his girth. The sweet syncopation between the pressure of her mouth and the squeeze of her sliding fingers had him dizzy with pleasure, but not so far gone he couldn’t share.

Blindly he reached up, one hand bracing against the sweet curve of Murphy’s hip bone while the other stroked down to cup the tangled silk between her thighs. Given that she was straddling him already his fingers slid along the soft slippery slickness of her seam easily. 

Gentleness was the key, Peter remembered, but dimly. His own damn body was flooding him with amazing sensations, and his hips were already rocking up, pushing his prick into Murphy’s palm but he concentrated, keeping his own touches light as he worked his index finger along the underside of her clit, nudging it with steady but oh-so-light touches. 

He knew he’d gotten it right when she began to push back, her own concentration faltering a bit. Peter kept the same steady but relentless stroke, the ball of his index finger occasionally gliding over the stiffening nub of her clitoris until Murphy was shuddering, the mane of her blonde hair flying as she moaned.

***

Everything stopped while Murphy caught her breath, biting her lower lip between her teeth while the tremors slowed, but didn’t quite still, in her body. Peter’s hand was still right where she wanted it, his fingers pushing against her clit while she rode out the waves. 

“Shit …” she moaned. 

She knew he was smirking, knew he was proud of himself, and her brain kicked her just a bit, reminding her of the competition that had started all of this. He didn’t get off scot free because he’d made her come first. Oh no, bub. 

Her eyes cleared. 

He still had that smug grin on his face, and even though the adoration in his eyes made her stomach tingle, Murphy took a deep breath. “Nice break, now . . . let’s see how good you _really_ are with a cue.”

She shifted, putting her weight on her shins as she straddled him with deliberate care, taking in the thick tip of his cock, barely letting it breech her. The damned thing was hot, and the temptation to just bounce away was nearly overwhelming but Murphy fought to stay still, her palms pressed on his damp chest for balance.

Peter rocked his hips up, trying to drive into her but Murphy anticipated it and rose up, grateful that all the hours she’d put in with her Thighmaster were now paying off. He got no further; she smirked herself. “I don’t think you called that.”

“Oh you don’t want to know what I’m calling THIS,” Peter growled, his expression looking a little desperate now. “Come ON!”

She gave an experimental wriggle; watching his eyes cross nearly made her laugh, but her own body was pretty primed too. She wanted him, truly and deeply, but first . . . .

“Who’s the winner?” Murphy demanded, digging her nails into his chest a little. “Come on, Petey, you can say it. Say it and put us _both_ out of our misery.”

Peter clamped his jaws, caught between the urgent throbs of his unruly cock urgently responding to that sexy contralto, and the tiniest little voice in the back of his head trying to remind him of past glories. _You’re better! She’s just---_

_No._ He kicked the little voice to the curb and mentally stomped it. _She’s better. She IS better! No dick required to master those balls OR these._

He slid his hands up her arms, letting his palms caress Murphy’s long muscles, hooking them under her shoulders and pulling her forward to look into her face. “You win. Queen of the table. Now rack’em up!”

Seemed to be the right thing to say; Murphy slid down as he arched up and they were in that mindlessly sweet syncopation of grunts, thrusts, kisses and heat. Peter shifted his grip to her ass, all the better for grinding up into her, feeling all coherent thought processes fading under the rising wave of pleasure building between them. Never mind that his back was going to ache for the next three days, never mind that there were going to be some interesting stains on the green baize, no, it was mission go time now, and judging by Murphy’s face she wasn’t too far behind her own second launch.

He slid a hand from her ass onto the top of her damp thigh, feeling her muscles as she bounced on him, and Peter slid it in close, reaching his thumb down, stretching it and yes . . . lightly it rubbed against her clit again as she moved, changing Murphy’s rhythm from determined to damned near frantic.

She tossed her head back in that gorgeous lioness move that always undid him; Peter felt the electric shocks of raw pleasure surge down his spine and through his prick as he grunted, fingers gripping her hard, each pulse a rolling wave of thick bliss. 

A few moments later he felt her squeeze around him, felt Murphy drop forward onto his chest, gasping a little. He got strands of her hair in his mouth which made him laugh in a slow wheezy way. “Th-that’s two balls in the center pocket . . .”

She laughed, her chest against his, the vibrations tickling him. “Actually I think that’s a muff . . .”

Peter snorted, wrapping his arms around her damp back, kissing the top of her head. “And _what_ a muff. God, you know from now on, anytime someone mentions pool I’m gonna be thinking of _this_ , right?”

“You DO know this game is where the term ‘money shot’ originated?” Murphy asked, grinning at him when she raised her head.

“I’m not a damned bit surprised,” Peter replied, slowly stroking her long spine. “Although the next time you hustle me, let’s try a softer surface. Maybe waterbed Twister.”

She laughed. “Come on; I still don’t have my root beer float and I seemed to have worked up an appetite.” Murphy slowly clambered off of him, groaning a little herself as she climbed off the pool table.

Pete lay there a moment longer, drowsy but pleased. He looked over to see Murphy with her hands on her hips, smiling at his nude post-coital sprawl. “Gonna savor this sight until my dying day,” she told him. “Peter Hunt, laid out on my pool table--defeated, depleted, and drained.”

“Don’t forget devoted, devious, and dumb,” he groaned, draping an arm over his eyes. “Honest to God, when am I ever going to learn?”

“Never, if I’m lucky,” Murphy replied. “Hustle up, Hotshot--the queen of the table commands you to get upstairs and get the ice cream. I’ll even put a couple aspirin in yours.”

“Oooh, my favorite topping--after a sizzling blonde that is,” Peter assured her with a grin as he began to roll off the table.

end


End file.
